Headmaster Longbottom Needs a Potions Master
by Finn'sFolly
Summary: Neville Longbottom is now the headmaster of Hogwarts, and he's in a dilemma. His Potions Master has taken ill, and he needs a substitute until the end of term. Will a certain greasy retiree help him?


Obligatory Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just having some fun with her characters. No profit is being made from this story.

A/N - This is my first attempt at sharing fanfiction. I'm not a professional writer, so my stuff isn't perfect. Hopefully it won't be too god-awful to get through. LOL Thanks for reading. - Finn

Let us begin!

It was halfway into Spring Break and Headmaster Longbottom was looking forward to catching up on some paperwork before he settled into his short holiday. He was sitting at his desk scribbling away, and making great headway. If he continued at this pace he'd be done by tomorrow evening. A window was open to let in the sweet-smelling spring breeze. An owl flew in and perched on the window sill for a moment to catch its breath. Neville set down his quill and walked over to it. The poor thing was parched. He conjured a small bowl of water for it, and relieved it of its parcel. He penned a quick note to Hagrid's young apprentice to come fetch it and get it settled in the owlery. The little piece of parchment, now shaped like an airplane, zoomed across the room and out the open window to find its recipient.

Neville leaned back in his chair, letter opener in hand, and sliced open the top of the envelope. The letter was written in an unfamiliar hand. He leaned forward in alarm as he read down the lines of messy, rushed handwriting. Professor Pietru had been traveling for the holiday with his Muggle family. He and several of his siblings came down with severe cases of Malta Fever. Luckily his cousin, a witch, had been traveling with them and called for a healer. It was she who'd written the letter. Neville quickly penned a get well letter and asked her to keep him informed of everyone's health. He ended the letter by telling her not to hesitate to ask for his help if it were needed.

Now Neville had the tiresome task of looking for a short-term substitute Potions teacher. It would take too long get appropriate responses if he put an ad in the paper, so he made a list of potential candidates and began writing letters. All the responses to his inquiries, save one, were in by the next evening. No one was interested. Neville rubbed his temples and prepared a strategy for the next morning.

###

He rose early the next morning and put on his most impressive set of robes.

"Fine choice, my boy," said Dumbledore's portrait.

"Thank you, sir."

"A bit dandyish if you ask me." Neville's shoulders fell.

"I don't recall anyone asking you, Phineas," said Dumbledore. "Chin up, Neville."

"Yes, sir."

Neville's first stop was the home of Ron and Hermione Weasley. Hermione was the only one who didn't answer his letter—quite out of character for her. Neville arrived with a loud crack outside the Weasley's front door and promptly knocked loudly. He waited for several minutes, but wasn't answered. He knocked again. An urgent-sounding voice on the other side of the door shouted, "Don't come in!"

Neville was insulted. If Hermione didn't want to teach, all she had to do was say so. Still, Neville thought it best to continue as he was truly in a bind and pressed for time "Um, hello? Hello there!"

"Are you bloody well deaf? Go away!"

Neville struggled to keep his manners in check. "I was wondering if Hermione received my letter?" he shouted.

"Step back from the door!" ordered the voice, a man's voice. It must be Ron. Why was he being so rude?

"They must be having a spat," thought Neville, "nothing personal." Neville stepped forward to knock again just as a piece of parchment, folded in half, slipped under the door. It squirmed as it was pinned under his shoe. Red letters flashed across it and spelled out, "Don't Touch Me!" Neville lifted his foot and the parchment flew into the air, eye level, and opened for him to read. "Hermione has Splattergroit." Neville jumped backwards away from the letter, which burst into flames scattering ashes on the Weasley's doorstep.

Neville quickly covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and moved to a window, hoping to see Ron. He was there, looking anxious and exhausted. He moved his hands as if to shoo Neville away. Neville gave him a thumbs up and disapperated. He immediately returned to his office at Hogwarts and sent for his wife. He removed all of his clothing, except for his underwear, and gathered it all in a pile. The portraits of the Headmistresses averted their eyes to give him privacy. "Incendio!" shouted Neville, leaving his best robes as nothing more than a pile of ash on the floor.

"What a pity," said Dumbledore. "They were very flattering, you know."

Seconds later Mrs. Hannah Longbottom emerged from the fireplace carrying a change of clothes for her husband. "Hermione's got Splattergroit," blurted Neville.

"How awful!" replied Hannah. "Does she need anything?"

"I don't know. Ron shooed me away. I want you to check me for it, just to be on the safe side." Hannah set the pile of clothes on a nearby chair and removed her wand from her sleeve. She slowly and silently moved her wand around Neville's body.

"You seem to be fine," said Hannah. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a potion for him. "I brought a Pepper-Up Potion for you." Neville thanked her and downed it in a single swallow, he then turned to his clothes and began to dress.

"What now?" asked Hannah.

"I have a couple more people to try."

"Alright then, dear," said Hannah as she went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Best of luck. Will you be home for dinner?"

"Should be."

###

Neville next arrived at the Potter home. He slicked his hair back with his hands, straightened his robes, and checked his breath. "Damn," said Neville to himself. "Hermione was my best pick."

He raised his hand to knock on the door, but before his knuckles could make contact, it flew open to reveal an excited-looking Harry with suitcase in hand; behind Harry stood Ginny, also carrying a suitcase. "Oh, Neville!" cried Harry. "I wasn't expecting you." Harry set down his suitcase and clapped his hands on Neville's shoulders. Ginny set her case down next to her husband's and kissed Neville on the cheek. "It's good to see you Neville, but I'm afraid Harry and I are in a bit of a hurry."

"I do apologize for arriving without notice, but I'm in a bit of bind myself," said Neville.

"What is it Neville?" asked Ginny.

"Professor Pietru's sick, and I need a substitute Potions teacher to step in until the end of term."

"I'm very sorry, Neville," said Harry. "Ginny and I can't help you. We're on our way to pick up Arthur and Molly. Lily's having another baby, and she's due any day now."

"Another one?" asked Neville. "How many is that?"

"Her ninth," replied Harry proudly. "She and Rory are trying for an even ten. Hopefully this one will be a girl."

"Fingers crossed," said Ginny as she and Harry collected their bags.

"Fingers crossed," repeated Neville. "Give everyone my love, will you?"

"Will do," replied Ginny. She followed Harry down the steps and got into the passenger side of their car while Harry put their bags in the trunk.

"Why the car, Harry?"

"I don't like to leave it unattended. I'll store it at the Burrow. See you, Neville. Good luck." Harry opened the driver's side door and plunked down onto the seat. A second later the car disappeared with a pop, and Neville was left standing alone in the street.

Neville had only one choice left. He mustered up his courage and disapperated. He reappeared in a dark, dank, little alley between two houses. He looked around to see if anyone was watching before he stepped out onto the sidewalk. The corner house just to his left was the one he wanted. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and steeled himself before knocking on the door. Seconds later the door opened just a crack, and then swung open violently. "Longbottom," said the silky voice of Severus Snape. "To what do I owe this most unwelcome visit?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," began Neville.

"Then why are you?" replied Snape.

"Well, sir," said Neville undaunted, "it seems that I'm in quite a pickle."

Snape folded his arms across his chest, raised his eyebrow, and smirked. "You don't honestly think I care, do you?"

"You see my Potions Master, Professor Pietru, has fallen ill—"

"He's an idiot," said Snape.

"I was under the impression that you two had never met."

"We haven't, but I knew his mother and she was an idiot," replied Snape. "Oh, but do carry on."

Neville thought he'd attracted Snape's interest and continued with a bit more confidence. "Since Pietru is ill, I need a substitute teacher for the rest of—" Neville didn't get the chance to finish his sentence. He found himself instinctively leaning backwards to keep Snape's door from slamming into his face. Neville balled his fists at his sides and stomped back to his alley. "I _really_ hate him."

###

Back in his office, Neville sat at his desk with his head in his hands. Dumbledore's portrait had been empty since hearing about Hermione's condition. When he returned, he loudly declared, "The poor girl looks dreadful!"

"I should send her something," said Neville, his head still in his hands. "Maybe a box of chocolates."

"Chocolates are nice," said Dumbledore, "when one has an appetite for them."

"Oh, right, well may be I'll send flowers."

"Flowers are lovely," declared Dumbledore happily, "so brightly colored and very fragrant."

"Hmm, Hermione would probably like something to read. I shall send her some books."

"There we are," said Dumbledore. "Well done, Neville."

Neville's head suddenly popped up. "I forgot about George."

"He's certainly clever enough," said Dumbledore's portrait. "But I fear some of the children might get inadvertently injured." Dumbledore thought for a moment then added, "I imagine rebuilding the potions lab would be a tiresome business. Not to mention all the detentions that would have to be given out."

"George is my only hope." Neville rose and dashed into his fireplace. He emerged from the fireplace in _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_. George's workshop was located on the building's top floor. All the bangs, pops, and smells it emitted attracted customers. Neville dashed up the stairs and pounded on George's workshop door. It flung open and a Hag appeared before him. Neville let out a scream and so did it. It was the ugliest Hag he'd ever seen. Not that he'd ever seen one in person, but he had seen pictures. "What's going on?" shouted George from another room.

"It's me-Neville!" Neville heard booted footsteps coming toward him. A second later George was standing behind the Hag. He was quite a frightening visage in his own right. He had on dark goggles, which he slid onto the top of his head. His hair was mostly white now, and it practically stood on end. He wore thick, green, rubber boots up to his knees, a matching thick green apron, and thick green rubber gloves up to his elbows. He had a large angry-looking boil on the side of his neck just above his collar that was leaking yellow pus onto his shirt.

"Away with you, Hagitha," said George. The Hag moved away, sat in a nearby chair, and picked up a pair of knitting needles. "Don't mind her; she's harmless. She's a prototype. I've got her darning my socks." George removed his glove and ushered Neville into the room. George peered into the hall to make sure no lurkers were about, and promptly shut the door. "Come to my office for a chat." George began chattering as Neville followed him to his office, but he didn't catch a word of it. There was so much commotion that Neville couldn't think straight. He imagined that if anyone ever had a chance to see the inner workings of George's mind, one would see, smell, and hear precisely what Neville was experiencing right now. There were lights flashing, and bursts of color everywhere. Things were moving and shouting and screaming. There were sweet smells, foul smells, burnt smells; pops, and whistles, and whirring sounds. There was a most annoying ticking sound that seemed to be following him. Neville was startled by a tiny pair of wands that were engaged in combat. Neville drew his own wand to deflect the jets of colored lights that were rushing at him.

George put his hand on Neville's arm and shouted, "Toddler dueling wands; they're harmless. Just protoypes." They walked a few more feet and stopped. "I want you to see this," said George. He pointed to the rear end of a toy Hippopotamus sitting upon a shelf. "Go on, touch it."

Neville touched the animal's tail. It rose up and a thick brown liquid, accompanied by the appropriate sound and odor, came flooding out and landed on Neville's pant-leg.

"Hilarious, isn't it?" said George. "Try it." It was obvious that Neville hadn't any idea what George meant. So George dabbed his finger into the brown goop that pooled on the shelf behind the Hippo and licked it. Neville turned green. George laughed hysterically. "It's only chocolate."

"That's revolting," said Neville.

"Ron doesn't like it either. He thinks it should make solid lumps instead."

"Good idea," said Neville.

George turned and began walking again. They passed a large wasp nest hanging from the ceiling. Two huge black and yellow wasps came flying out. One was buzzing menacingly about George's head, but he didn't seem to notice it. The other did the same around Neville's head. George tried to tell him not to swat at it, but it was too late. It stung Neville right in the center of his forehead. George flicked his wand and the two wasps went back to their nest. "They're prototypes, not ready for production. I haven't worked out the bugs yet. Get it? Bugs?"

"That really hurt," said Neville, rubbing his head.

"They only sting if you try to swat them. You'll be alright though, just squeeze the pus out of it once in a while. It should clear up in a couple of weeks."

Finally they reached George's office. George closed the door behind them and removed his remaining glove, throwing the pair onto the floor. "Have a seat, Neville. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you."

Neville sat down gingerly on a creaky chair. He didn't relax until he was certain that it was just an ordinary chair. George plopped down behind his desk and put his feet up on top of all the clutter. This was a fairly small room compared to the one they'd just been in. There was George's desk, a large drafting table, two small cauldrons sitting atop a small table, and a row of supply cabinets against the wall behind them. This is where George did his brainstorming. There were other rooms used for various stages of production.

"So what can I do for you?"

"I've got quite a dilemma, George. My Potions Master has taken ill, and I need a stand-in until the end of term."

George sat up and put his feet on the floor. "I wish I could help you, Neville, but I've got the _Toymakers Convention_ coming up. Two Japanese upstarts have shown me up for two years running. I'm determined to best them this year!" George punctuated his last statement by bashing his fist on his desk. Neville thanked him for his time and removed himself from George's workshop with as much speed as was polite.

###

Neville decided to call it a day and went home instead of returning to his office. Hannah was still busy with customers in _The Leaky Cauldron_, so he poured himself an extra-large mug of butter-beer and sat in his favorite chair in front of the fireplace. After seeing the workshop, he was actually glad that George had declined. Heaven knows how many angry parents Neville would've had to deal with. Of course, the students would've been delighted with George, as most children are. But safety comes first and practical thinking must prevail.

He had only one choice left, and that was to teach Potions himself. The older students were trained well enough to manage without much instruction. Neville would just have to supervise and make sure that all the proper safety precautions were observed. The younger students would have to be satisfied with brewing the simplest of potions. "It can't be that hard," said Neville to himself. "I should do well enough now that that great bat isn't lurking over my shoulder."

Neville spent the rest of his holiday reading through the Potions textbooks. He always liked to be prepared for class. His supposition ended up being correct; each class of older students had at least one boy or girl who could lead the others with little direction from Neville. The younger, less experienced, students were more of a challenge, but Neville was holding his own.

"Good afternoon," said Neville as the class of third years filed noisily into the room.

"Excuse me, Headmaster," said a little bespectacled boy named Norman Summers. Neville thought of him as male version of Hermione—well-meaning but annoying.

"Yes, Norman."

"Where's Professor Pietru?"

"Professor Pietru has taken ill and won't be back until next term. Please take your seat so we can begin." Neville turned his attention to the rest of the class. "Settle down everyone." A little hand shot into the air and was waving wildly trying to get Neville's attention. "What is it, Norman?"

"Sir that pimp…um, that boil…um, that purple thing on your forehead is leaking." Quiet ripples of laughter spread around the room.

"Thank you, Norman." Neville wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "I was stung by a wasp. I know wasp stings are usually red. This was red, now it's dark purple. Those were, hopefully, the answers to your following questions. Everyone, please settle down." Neville waited a moment for the students to quiet themselves before continuing. "As you all just heard, I am filling in temporarily for Professor Pietru. I haven't much talent for Potion-making so we will all have to be satisfied with brewing the simplest varieties. In today's class, we'll be making a salve-" A hand launched into the air. "What is it, Norman?"

"But, Sir, we were supposed to make a Shrinking Solution. I was so looking forward to it. I even studied up on alternative brewing methods."

"That's very commendable, Norman, but I've already explained the situation, and we'll be making a simple healing salve instead. The instructions are already on the board. Start brewing."

Neville walked slowly between the rows of cauldrons, carefully inspecting every student's work, and offering advice where he could. He truly did love teaching and was beginning to feel more confident in his new role as Potions Master despite the persistent itch called Norman. He stopped at one of Norman's neighbors, a very nervous little girl named Chelsea. Her salve was a bit dark and a bit runny. "You put a little too much beetle wing powder in it; that's why it's dark. Try putting a little more yarrow root in it; that should thicken it up a bit. Just relax, Chelsea, you're doing fine."

"But, Sir," said Norman, "it's not supposed to be that dark. It's not as effective when it's that dark. It's supposed to be a caramel color, like mine. And the consistency is all wrong. A salve that watery won't stay on the wound-"

Neville looked at Norman, but spoke loudly enough that the entire class could hear him over their bubbling cauldrons. "It's true that a darker salve is not as effective as the caramel-colored variety. It is, however, still usable…" He didn't get a chance to finish his statement because poor little Chelsea became so flustered that she dropped a piece of lizard tail into her potions and it exploded. Three students had burns on their hands and faces. Neville's burns were the worst as he was standing directly in front of the cauldron.

"Alright, who's injured? Just the three of you?" Neville felt a tug on his robes. "What is it now, Norman?" said Neville through clenched teeth.

"Here, Sir, you can use mine." Norman handed him his cauldron of perfectly brewed salve to spread on everyone's wounds. "Thank you, Norman. The rest of you clean up. You three go directly to the hospital wing after you get your salve smeared on."

###

Neville, with his freshly bandaged hands and chin, plopped dejectedly onto his office chair.

"Bad day?" asked Dumbledore. Neville didn't answer. He just plopped his face down onto his desk and promptly howled in pain. He'd forgotten about the sting. He lifted his head and wiped the blob of pus off of his desk with his handkerchief. "You need to go to Severus."

"I did that. He slammed the door in my face."

"Severus isn't entirely unreasonable. You just need to find the correct approach."

"Alright, Sir, I'll try again."

"That's the spirit!"

Neville took out a sheet of his best quality parchment with matching envelope. He reached for his quill, saw his bandaged hand, and thought better of it. He pulled an Auto-Quill out of his desk drawer and dictated the most formal and flattering letter that he could. He sealed the envelope with red wax and sent it off with Hogwarts' best owl.

He was excited to see a return letter from Snape not a full hour later. Snape's return envelope was just as high quality as the one Neville had sent him. It was sealed with emerald green wax. Neville reached for his letter opener and eagerly sliced open the top of the envelope. It felt strange in his hands. Even through the bandages, he could feel that the bottom of the envelope was oddly thick. His heart sank when he peered inside. Neville leaned over his trash can and dumped the contents of the envelope into it. A pile of ash floated down into the can. Judging by the clunk made by a lump of red wax, Snape had burnt the letter Neville had sent him, complete with the envelope it was in and the red wax he'd used to seal it.

"That appears to have been the wrong approach," said Dumbledore. Neville wanted to shout, but held his tongue out of respect. "Go to him, Neville. Don't plead, don't flatter, just state your case."

Neville sighed and rose. He apparated to the same alley. It was pouring rain. Sheets of water were dropping from his hat, obscuring his vision. His feet were wet because he'd forgotten to wear boots. His rain coat kept the rest of him dry. He trudged to Snape's door and knocked. The door opened to reveal Snape standing in a black Muggle suit and wearing a disturbingly pleasant expression. Snape's usual dour expression returned the instant that he realized who was at the door. "Go away, Longbottom."

"Sir, wait! Don't shut the door! I'll do anything…" Neville knelt down in the dirty rain water.

"Eww," said Snape as he stepped back. "I don't go for that sort of thing, Longbottom."

"What?" Neville rose to his feet. "Please, Sir, just hear me out."

There was a long pause. "Well, go on," said Snape.

The gutter above the door was clogged and was dumping huge torrents of rain onto Neville's head. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"No."

"Please, Sir, I am desperate! I'll triple your wages. You can have the largest office in the castle…"

A little boy of approximately two, wearing a green rain suit and matching boots, dashed past Neville and disappeared into Snape's house. A second later a little girl of about three walked in wearing a red rain suit. She smiled up at Snape and said, "Hi Mitter Thnapp."

"Hello dear," replied Snape.

A third child appeared, a little boy who was just walking. He was wearing a blue rain suit and was passed from his mother's supportive hand to Snape's. He wrapped himself around Snape's leg and looked shyly up at Neville. A little voice from inside the house shouted, "I'm hungry!"

"I just fed him. I swear," said the boy's mother.

"Not to worry," said Snape pleasantly. He reached out his arm and pushed Neville out of the way. "Stand aside, Longbottom." He then reached up and tapped the gutter and unclogged it.

A very attractive young woman stood before them holding a blue umbrella. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said to Neville.

"It's quite alright, Miss. It wasn't anything important anyway," answered Neville.

"Oh, my, what happened to your forehead?" asked the woman.

"I hit myself with the door on the kitchen cupboard."

"I've done that," she said. "It really hurts." She then turned her attention back to Snape. "Thanks for watching them on such short notice."

"My pleasure," said Snape.

"Simon will collect them around six. Oh, and my sister said to thank you for the salve. Her cut healed without a scar."

"I'm delighted to hear it."

"I must be off; I'll be late for work." The woman turned and left. Neville watched her for a moment before the rain obscured her figure. "Snape has an eye for the ladies," he thought as he turned back to face Snape.

"Not a word, Longbottom," said Snape.

Neville grinned triumphantly.

###

The students chattered and laughed as they settled in for Potions class. Headmaster Longbottom was usually there when the students arrived, but he was nowhere to be seen. With a loud clatter that made them all jump, the classroom door flew open and bashed into the wall. A slim man with long grey hair streaked with black who was wearing billowing black robes stalked into the room. Everyone fell silent. The man stood in front of the class with his teaching robes drawn closely around himself. He spoke with a low silky voice.

"My name is Professor Snape. I am your Potions Master. I was a teacher here at Hogwarts for many years before my blissful retirement. Do not waste your time, or mine, attempting to pull any pranks. I have seen them all and I assure you, none of you are clever enough to think up anything original. Don't bother trying to test my patience; I have none. I want to be here even less than you do. We are stuck with each other until the end of term, so let us try and make the best of it. Your instructions are on the board. Begin."

###

Neville sat back in his desk chair, smiling to himself and blowing on a hot cup of tea.

"Blackmail is sweet, isn't it, Neville?" said Dumbledore.

"It certainly is."


End file.
